


Timestamps [Kitty: life before]

by AvaKelly



Series: Kitty [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, timestamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few timestamps for their lives during the events of "I Don't Remember How" (before their night together). Chapters are now ordered chronologically. Marked complete (very little chances of additions to this in the future).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soldier watches a man torture another for James Barnes. It realigns his perspective.

Drop him, check vitals. The other soldier will live and it clicks that his mission is over, within these new parameters that he's been so quick to amend.

There's a thing that squirms inside his throat that hurts worse than his dislocated shoulder and he smacks himself viciously against a tree trunk to cover it up. Usually more pain means less... aching.

But it doesn't work.

He needs. Needs to be whole again, not a shattered thing with death clawing at his insides.

His purpose has shifted and realigned, disappearing into nothingness.

He's lost.

Sparing one last look at the trembling body behind him on the shore, he turns, walks away. But the image of water splashing onto boots he knows too well still haunts him, why would he know them, stop, stop scratching, it hurts.

~

The thing finally overflows from his chest, ugly and vile.

Steve.

He almost killed Steve.

Who shoved himself in his head, scratching at his mind until it bled raw. Who wiped him worse than they did.

Yet the chair always bring peace, afterwards.

Maybe... maybe that's what he needs. A chance to think, and he can't right now, not under the suffocating tilt of his entire existence.

A plan forms, he executes. This is easy. Steal a quinjet, go to base, reassess, reevaluate.

~

Somewhere over the Atlantic he realizes he doesn't have the exact coordinates, but he knows just where the check-in outpost is, masked within a cabin right at the edge of a slow climbing mountain slope.

It captures his entire focus, but he oversteps all security measures, avoids all cameras as he approaches the cabin.

That's why he doesn't register it until he's outside the kitchen window.

This monstrous thing that laughs about his pain.

"And if you find him what, wanna be puppet master?"

It spits blood, tied to the chair, hands behind his back, face bruised on the right side, a cut on the upper lip.

"Gonna make him your nice obedient slave--"

"Hey, hey, I know you're scared, but there's no need to lash out. I'll get my answers either way, ok?"

The voice is soft, but it still travels outward through the glass panes. He takes a step closer, keeping outside the light spilling from the room. Dusk has settled fully around, the space silent safe for the clinks of metal against metal.

The thing in the chair grins, eyes terrified under the gesture.

The other one has his back turned, elbows moving slightly as he arranges something on the table.

"Fuck you," the thing grits.

A sensation flashes through the soldier's mind, then another, and again. The cabin keeper tied to the chair is not unknown to him. Something twists in his gut and he presses a hand over it before he realizes what he's doing. It doesn't stop the way the window swirls in front of him, doesn't stop the sudden spinning, that voice in his ear, detailing the horrors that they'll do in order to test his limits.

"And fuck that mindless animal, too."

But then... the other shifts on a heel, slowly, back straight, hands steady, steps sure, and grabs the jaw of the keeper, holds it open by digging his fingers into his cheeks.

"No need to be crude," the same raspy voice floats, like a blanket that steadies the world, giving it substance.

Oh.

Oh, how it hurt. The rod they'd put inside to keep his mouth open, the first few times.

And how the keeper screams when the other does the same, right through that joint between the mandible and the maxillary.

"Shh," the torturer croons.

An involuntary swallow, to remind himself he's allowed to use his voice now, but his fingers still shoot up to make sure his face is not impaled anymore.

"It's ok," the man says, petting through the keeper's hair absently, gaze lost for a moment. "You didn't mean it. But don't worry, by tomorrow you'll know his name. James Barnes."

The keeper twitches sharply in the chair, trying to push away from that hand, jaw hanging open while red drool flows viscously onto his front.

James Barnes.

It's foreign.

Just like everything else threatening to choke him where he stands.

The only thing that's keeping him there is _him._

The other one.

A soldier and yet... not like Steve. Not like the scientists. Not like the team following orders before they shackled him.

No. This one is something different.

This one is _so solid_.

Unlike himself, who's just carrying around a hollowness that's more and more pressing with each flash of stuttering images, who's again so lost this close to base.

~

Dawn breaks for the second time.

The man in the cabin wipes his hands on a rag before coming closer to cradle the face of the keeper between his palms.

"Now we know nobody is coming, yes," he whispers. "This would've been over much sooner, you know. I gave you time to reconsider. Well, anyway. Thank you. You can rest."

Rest. Rest is something that he wants, he realizes, and the soldier takes one step closer. The man might give it to him if he asks.

Man, yes. Not guard, nor doctor, nor master or general or colonel.

Inside the cabin there's a human and a thing.

One of them soothing, the other cruel.

The inside of his throat scratches one last time, in a downward spiral. It wraps around the muscles of his heart, and pumps blood once.

Once, as the last knife on the table is picked up. Only once, for the single thrust between the keeper's ribs.

It's clinical, and merciful, just like the preparations they did right before he went under, in blissful oblivion.

Yet.

There's something shining in the man's eyes, something in the set of his shoulders, something in the tightness of his face.

The man moves, picks up a sheet of paper from a file open on the counter, safely away from the spatters of blood. He watches it silently for a while.

"Rest assured, James Barnes," he says. "Nobody's going to hunt you."

And for the first time, it makes sense, why he's been standing there for two days, watching the torture.

Because there's no more need for pain. He can have this other sort of oblivion, the one the man in the cabin dishes out.

The one that can erase his essence and let the James one out.

Yes.

The man is protecting James Barnes, not him. And if he gives himself to this man, surely he'll stop drifting aimlessly, find a meaning to the new mission, or lack thereof, to Steve, to the broken bits of someone else taking claim over the gnawing numbness within.

He tethers himself to James.

And steps forward, to safety.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. How are things? Hope all's ok and summer is not too hot and winter is not too cold.  
> Yes, it's been slow lately, so many things piling up over here in the real world, that writing has been thwarted. Temporarily. Crossing fingers for more inspiration in the days to come! But on the brighter side, my [winterhawk big bang fic](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/137476192012/barnes-barton-and-nine-brats) is already finished and will be published according to the event schedule (should be sometime in september).  
> Have a wonderful day there! o/


	2. Bathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's past midnight and if there are spelling mistakes in there, just let me know where so I can fix. *lies on floor*

He stands there, staring at his gear, piled neatly on the rusty washing machine in the corner of the bathroom.

There's no water, anywhere. He waits for it, but it never comes. It startles him, and he struggles against the blankness that his mind returns. He should be doing _something_ , but it slips from him, just like everything else.

He knows words, but he rarely knows that they mean.

His eyes shift to the door. Maybe _he_ knows what to do, the assassin. Clint Barton, the man who killed them. Water used to come in powerful sprays, but this bathroom has no visible hose. It's musty and small. That man, he killed them. Something shifts in his stomach and he splays his metal fingers over it, concentrates on the sensors. Nothing irregular, but the something is still there, and now his face is heating. He moves the metal fingers to his forehead, but there is no discernible rise in temperature.

An anomaly.

He takes note of it before moving out. He forgets to make noise, and the assassin, Barton, stills when he stops near.

"I don't remember how," he says. The heat in his cheeks is increasing and he forces it back.

Barton looks at him, eyes wide. "How the hell did they wash you," he asks, rising to his feet.

"Hosed the blood down."

Ahead of him, Barton's frame tightens. His hand twitches for a weapon, but he is naked. Vulnerable. He prepares to take defensive action. It soon becomes apparent that it's not necessary, as Barton takes short stock of the bathroom, posture less tense.

"All right, I guess a bath will be better," he says, and moves to twist knobs.

Water rushes out into the... the... the word eludes him. He moves closer, watches the swirls forming around the assassin's fingers as the bathtub fills. Bathtub!

_***What have you gotten yourself into this time, look how filthy you are! Now you need a bath...***_

"In you go," Barton says and he complies.

It will be hard to defend himself from inside the tub, but the something squirming around his belly is somehow negating his cautiousness. He takes note of this as well.

"How's the water temperature?" Barton asks.

He bends down and dips his metal fingertips in. "Thirty nine Celsius."

A choked off noise comes from the side and Barton is looking at him, hand pressed over his mouth, both eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

"What," he growls.

Barton lifts both hands in surrender, sucking in a breath. "I meant, does it feel ok to sit in it."

He looks down at the water rising around his calves, considers this. "Yes."

"Ok," Barton breathes. "So sit, lie down."

He follows the directions, sealing up the plates of the arm. For a fraction of a second, he expects the door of the cryogenic chamber to close in front of him, but the water is warm and the space is still open before his eyes.

"Can I touch you?"

He looks up at Barton. He killed them all. He killed the guard they'd buried earlier with precision. If Barton were to kill him, it would be swift and painless. So he nods.

Hands cup the sides of his head, tilting it backwards. "Need to get your hair wet first," Barton says, and then he moves to bring a plastic bottle over. He squirts its contents onto his palm. "Sit up a little."

He complies again, and then Barton's hands are in his hair, moving around, fingers rubbing at his scalp. He lifts his flesh fingers to feel for the source of the flowery smell invading the room, and they come back covered in foam.

_***James! Stop squirming around, I swear you're givin' me gray hairs before Mrs. Moretti gets any.***Sorry, ma.***_

The tiles of the wall in front of him are all wrong, but the words don't come with images. He can't see her face.

James. Is he really?

This body was born James, but is that name really his now?

He can't remember her face.

"Lie back down," Barton says, voice hushed.

He looks at Barton then. Clint Barton. The assassin has a name and he's wearing it without pause. Perhaps it's not the name given to him at birth, but he _is_ wearing a name.

He leans back into the water, and the fingers sift through his hair. It's entrancing.

James has been given to him, after all. He could wear it until it doesn't fit. Yes, he is named James, even though he is not James, doesn't remember how to be him.

Barton raises to his feet again, but comes back with... he squints his eyes searching for the word again.

"Soap," Barton says, wiggling the solid bar in the air, before he dips it and a cloth in water.

James watches him rub the soap on the cloth. Oh... _bathing_. He tilts his head back as Clint swipes the cloth on his neck, and he closes his eyes to hide the way they burn.

He doesn't remember her face.

He runs his flesh fingers on his face, and stills when Clint's hand is suddenly there, cleaning his cheeks and his forehead. James looks at him then. Clint is frowning as he works, his nostrils flaring and lips twitching. He looks like a predator.

The faucet drips into the water, the sound reverberating off the walls. James lifts his arm when Clint tugs at it.

"What's your code name?"

"Hawkeye." Clint's mouth corner twitches upward, and the thing inside James flutters.

Bird of prey. It suits him.

"Winter Soldier," he offers.

"I know," comes back in a whisper, before Clint pushes him to lean forward and the cloth is rubbing at his back.

He knows what to do now, he should take it from him, continue on his own. It's new, this possibility of choice he keeps having. Clint's hand pulls at his shoulder and he straightens.

"I know what they did," Clint whispers, and moves to clean James' chest.

It was expected.

"Can I..." Clint speaks again, waving a finger at the metal.

James nods. The plates are hermetically sealed, and soap should not be acting as a corrosive on it if it didn't burn his skin away. He watches Clint clean it with the same concentration on his face, hands steady. It's fascinating, how he's handling this _weapon_ without bias, as if it's a natural part of James.

"Stand up."

James follows. Clint stares at him for several seconds before letting out a heavy sigh. His hands go back to rubbing at James' skin, on his abdomen, hips, and then between his legs. Clint nudges until he turns, and then the motions continue, until all the way down to his feet.

Clint moves away and the water starts draining out. "Sit back down."

He does so, and then Clint untangles a length of tubing from around the faucet. So there was the hose, James thinks. But the spray of water is still warm, a lot gentler.

"Ok, done," comes next as Clint shuts off the water. "Out," he says and grabs a towel from the hooks on the wall.

This time, James stops him after Clint wipes at his face, takes over.

But Clint just watches, his frown deepening. He shifts on the spot, balancing his weight between one leg and the other, mouth opening and closing a few times. It doesn't look very energy efficient.

"Do you know how to use that?" Clint finally asks, pointing at the toilet.

"Yes," James answers. They had made him do that before, he remembers it. The heat is back in his face.

Now that he looks closer, Clint's cheeks are red. He lifts his metal fingers to touch, but the sensors read no increase in temperature from Clint's skin. He tries his own face again, same results.

"Yeah," Clint rocks on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's called embarrassment."

Huh. It doesn't sound familiar.

"What for?"

Clint stills, wide eyed for a moment, but then he chuckles, rubs a hand over his eyes. "You're right. What for, indeed," he says and shrugs before leaving the room.

This assassin is strange. But Clint feels clean, even with blood staining his cargo pants, and he's let James feel clean as well.

Feel. This is new. No protocol, just fear. It must be important, then, if they trained it out.

_Feel._

~


	3. The First Blossom of Spring

It's his first night in Clint's safehouse and James spends the long hours of darkness standing in the middle of the bedroom Clint's directed him into, listening to the noises of the place.

Wind blows outside, not as heavily as in their Russian hideout, but strong enough that the branches of the trees outside sway softly against the moonlight. They have small leaves on them already. In the daylight they had been a vibrant green, but now they are just shapes against the dim horizon. James watches them through the window, waiting for the wind to blow them away, rip them apart, but they endure.

A bit like James has endured.

He feels a little new himself.

New place, a new face, an understanding. A being that feels to him like the moonlight encasing the leaves, a being that brings him out, makes him visible enough to believe he exists.

James shifts, walks slowly, feet bare against the floorboards. The doors of their rooms are both still open, and James only stops when he stands over Clint.

There is no moonlight coming through this window, but there is the soft rasp of Clint's breathing swirling through the air. If the leaves would rustle, James figures that this might be how they'd sound.

Like life.

~

Clint stirs awake with the dawn and James moves away, back to the other bedroom.

He listens to Clint as he goes through his morning routine, and maybe he shouldn't pay attention to everything, but he can't help it.

He likes how Clint is so alive.

Unlike James, most of the time, even with all the newness.

When Clint passes by the door again, James follows him downstairs, watches him as he prepares coffee. A mug is thrust into his hands, and Clint blinks blearily at him until James joins him at the kitchen table.

But then... Clint's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. James turns to where he's looking, eyes fixed on the door of the refrigerator. There is no threat there, just a couple of magnets holding a calendar in place.

"It's March 10th," Clint whispers, voice heavy with sleep.

His words overlap with a sudden gust of wind outside that makes the tree branches shuffle against each other. The air is gray, the sky dark with thick clouds, and Clint's voice sounds green.

"Happy birthday, kitty."

The smile that comes with that feels like sunshine over the world, bathing the leaves in soft tones, warming their rawness, helping them grow.

James' chest opens.

He blooms.

~


	4. Only I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint reads Dune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from Frank Herbert’s Dune.

It’s 3:17 AM. The house is silent and dark.

On the bed in the other room, Clint sleeps, his breaths even.

James stands still, eyes scanning the shadows. Is it real? Is he still there? Or did they wipe him completely... it travels up from the back of his neck, pressing into the bones of his skull...

“ _I must not fear._ ”

He must not fear. 

“ _Fear is the mind-killer._ ”

Mind-killer.

“ _Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration._ ”

Clint. His voice is gravelly, low and spiraling itself along the phantom pain that clutches at James’ head. 

“ _I will face my fear._ ”

Help me, please.

“ _I will permit it to pass over me and through me._ ” 

James shifts, closer and closer to the voice.

“ _And when it has gone past..._ ”

The wood of the door frame to Clint’s bedroom is cold against his cheek, the wall there solid behind his back.

“ _I will turn the inner eye to see its path._ ”

James closes his eyes.

“ _Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain._ ”

“Only I,“ James breathes.

~


	5. Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, well, this is a bit more boring. But, there you go anyway. Poor James :3

It's been five months, three weeks and a day since he had crossed paths with Clint. At the moment, Clint is somewhere in Canada, raiding a HYDRA base and James is staring at a map of the area on the laptop. He closes the website when he realizes what he's doing. What _is_ he doing? He has no answer, so he busies himself with inspecting the security grid.

When the twenty four hour mark passes, James adds another ten hours for the trip back and forth, possible debriefings. At the end of those, he finds himself pacing the length of the living room, and he forces himself to sit down.

He scours the news outlets for the rest of the evening, but there is nothing related to the base.

It's worry, he recognizes. For Clint, for Steve.

He brings out his arsenal to clean, gives his hands something to do.

He is painfully aware of how Clint had just accepted James in his life without actually asking for anything in return. He had just helped, had clothed and fed James, had taught him basic human functions. He smiles at the memory of Clint trying to explain brushing teeth with his mouth full of toothpaste.

Clint had also not pushed James away toward Steve, had not even hinted James should go bother Steve instead. He'd asked, once, if James wanted to see Steve, but then he'd just accepted James' clipped "not yet" and that had been that.

He's grateful. He's so fucking grateful, it shakes him through his core.

The grip of the gun in his hand creaks, bending under the strain of metal fingers and he drops it on the coffee table. This is useless.

He should be home by now.

James stills.

_Home?_

~

It's been seventy four hours. James grabs one of Clint's spare bows and mimics his posture, shoots at tree trunks. He's not as good as Clint, but it helps, somewhat, to reassure himself of Clint's skills. He can't wipe the image of Clint bloody and broken and exhaling his last breath...

~

One hundred and eight hours since departure.

The keys of the laptop squeak under the strain of James' fingers as he types down a check-in protocol.

Nothing on the news.

~

Steve is there with him, they're going to be fine. The woman, Romanova, he's met her before, she's capable as well.

He moves the crates of tools and documentation out of the quinjet, cleans his weapons and his gear again.

~

He has a plan.

James stares at the mouth piece in his hand. Someone screams in the distance, the sound filled with terror. He drops it back on the bed and grabs the goggles instead.

"Hey, kitty, I'm back," comes from the doorway and it says something about how off balance he is that he hasn't heard Clint come into the house.

The asshole dares smile at him like everything is fucking perfect and James' stomach turns with relief. He does what every worried person would do, throws the goggles at Clint.

"Ow," comes back and James starts taking off the rest of his gear. "Where you coming to get me?" Clint asks and why is that so surprising. Stupid weird assassin that... that... agh!

He throws his weapons and suit in a pile on the bed, grabs jeans a t-shirt.

"You're late," he tells Clint before giving him the new protocol.

He stomps down the stairs, and no, he's not a child thank you. He's been _worried_.

"You missed me," Clint shouts from the first floor landing.

James stumps his toe on a kitchen chair.

Oh. He's _missed_ Clint, as well.

~

It's been six months, two weeks and four days since he's first laid eyes on Clint.

At the moment, Clint is gearing up for another mission to find the scepter. Since the first one, he's secured two encrypted phones for them. James expects communication according to protocol and he glares at Clint in warning as he leaves.

He definitely does not check the device every five minutes. It's every ten. Fine, he's still worried.

He suits up an hour after Clint's departure and waits. The relief at Clint's message that he's on his way back leaves him slightly breathless. James looks at himself then. What the _hell_ is he doing? Clint's going to laugh at him again, so he changes quickly.

Clint is safe.

~

The front door opens and closes, and James keeps his eyes firmly on the monitor of the laptop.

"Hi," Clint says from the entryway into the living room.

James looks up, and there's dirt covering almost every inch of Clint's uniform, dust matted in his hair. Otherwise, he looks uninjured.

"Hi," he nods back.

"I brought you something," comes next with a tired smile and Clint flips his hand toward James.

A glint arches through the air before James catches the object. It's a small metal feline head, with a tiny hook between its ears. He raises it at Clint along with his eyebrows.

"It reminded me of you, a cat for the kitty".

Something shifts in the beating of his heart and James scowls.

It earns him a chuckle, before Clint moves upstairs. A few minutes later, the shower is turned on.

James takes his pulse several times. No anomaly. Then what--

"So, missed me?" Clint's voice drifts through, and he's standing there in sweats and a t-shirt, rubbing water out of his hair.

There's a small smile on Clint's face and the weird flip-flop of his heart happens again. He frowns.

"Aw, come on now," Clint says before collapsing on the sofa next to James. He leans back with a sigh. "It's good to be home," he pats James' knee, closes his eyes.

_Home._

The edges of the pendant are biting into James' palm and he's left there staring at it, a flutter in his chest that is spreading warmly up along his collarbones. He slips the trinket in his pocket.

A shift, and Clint is leaning heavily against him, head on James' shoulder. He's out for the count, his breaths even in slumber. The somersault of sensation intensifies and James sucks in a sharp inhale. Is this...

He moves carefully, picks Clint up with an arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees. He deposits him gently in his bed before sitting on the edge.

His tongue is numb in his mouth and something lodges painfully in his throat. But he _has_ to know _._ If this is really...

James lifts his hand, pushes damp strands of hair off Clint's forehead, before leaning close to press his lips against it. His jaw trembles as he straightens.

"I think I love you," he whispers, as low as possible.

A beat, and the _rightness_ of it makes him double over. He rushes out as quickly and silently as he can.

His hands are shaking by the time he reaches the living room. He pulls the pendant back out, traces of vague memories skirting along the edge of consciousness. He's felt this before. For who, he doesn't remember, but it's unmistakable.

It _really_ is. _Love._

~


	6. Mended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is accidentally breaking things. Based on [this](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/131693290447/waywardwinterfics-berjhawn-didipenny).

The first time it happens, it's the door to the closet in his bedroom. James wedges it back in its place, looks around. But Clint is nowhere in sight. A few hours later, when he needs clothes, the door plops toward him, bopping him in the forehead.

Ugh.

James rubs at the bruise, glaring at the broken hinges before he takes a closer look. They're not actually broken, but the screws that attach them to the wood came loose. He fetches the laptop from downstairs quickly, makes a search. Ah, so that's how those can be fixed. It doesn't sound difficult, hell, one plate of the arm is more complicated than that, and James can take care of it just fine.

Every tool he needs is in Clint's toolbox, which is in the dining room that Clint is restoring. James sneaks in quietly, grabs what he needs, slides right out without leaving a trace.

~

Clint freezes where he's peeling wallpaper. There's something... he turns quickly, twisting the chisel he's been using in his hand, ready to fight, but there's no one there.

Huh. Clint squints his eyes.

~

James inhales, holds it in, then exhales carefully. The faucet handle mocks him as it sits between his fingers. How in the world did this one break... but it doesn't matter. Clint is out getting supplies, so he should be able to repair it before he returns.

~

He doesn't have time to fix the cupboard door in the kitchen before Clint follows the smell of coffee.

~

Clint stops in the hallway. Something's off. Yet he can't quite put his finger on it. He turns around slowly, trying to understand what's so strange about the hallway today, but he ends up scratching his head.

~

Phew. Clint leaves and James drops down from where he's climbed close to the roof of the hallway near the entrance, screwdriver dangling from his teeth. The space is narrow enough that he can hold himself up with hands and feet braced on either side against the walls. He looks up at the scuff marks he's left there.

Ugh.

But he's managed to screw the light switch back in place. He's flicked it on a little too fast, and somehow, it caused the bulb to flutter off into darkness. A wire had been connected too loosely, and all it took was tightening the screw there. He'd just come back from switching the breaker back on, checked on the thing, and replaced its cap before Clint came by. That had been a close call. But hey, now there's proper lighting in the hallway.

~

James fills the coffee maker with water, turns it on, and... the thing spits the water right at him. At least it wasn't already heated. James sighs, frowning at the machine. All right, two can play this game, and he rolls his sleeves. He gives it one more glare before he goes to search through the basement for a soldering iron.

~

The cupboard door falls right over James' face, and he barely manages to catch it before it hits him in the nose.

He sighs. He's forgotten he broke that as well.

He listens to the noises of the house. Clint's in the shower. So he grabs the tools he needs from the dining room, works quickly. He's an expert at hinges by now.

James winks at the fixed door and gives it a pat. It's actually quite satisfying to help things be whole again.

Clint returns to the kitchen soon after, shuffles around grabbing sandwich ingredients. He opens the cupboard door James has just fixed, and James is proud that it doesn't even squeak anymore. But instead of grabbing whatever he wanted from inside, Clint closes the door. And opens it again. And closes, and opens, and again, mouth opening gradually until he gapes at it.

"Aw, door," he says, "I thought you were broken."

Uh-oh. James shifts slowly toward the nearest exit, making sure to keep Clint in his sight. He can still hear Clint muttering, "the faucet, too, the light, the board on the porch," as he escapes toward the living room, curls on the sofa with the laptop, like he's been sitting there for hours.

Soon, though, Clint walks through, carrying a plate with sandwiches. He places it on the coffee table, and James steals one. Half have pickles in them, which he knows with certainty that Clint hates, and he smiles to himself. It's not even a minute before Clint returns.

"The attic door is broken," Clint says, handing over a hammer before sitting next to him.

James takes it, slides it under his thigh with a nod. So Clint knows. And doesn't stop him, on the contrary, is letting James fuck with his house.

"Thanks, kitty."

And that... James feels a little mended himself.

~


	7. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day James asked for a shave. The day he suspected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides under blanket*
> 
> My throat hurts. Caught another cold. I don't wanna. :(

It's been two days since Clint's last mission. James quietly sips his coffee, watching him from across the table. There's a shadow over Clint's face that's been getting more and more evident ever since he's started going after that thing.

The scepter.

It's Clint's chair. The instrument that bent his will, erased him from himself. It was for a shorter time than for James, but he understands what it evokes in Clint.

"Steve keeps looking for you," Clint says, eyes on the coffee in front of him.

James doesn't know what to say to that. Clint's been giving him updates about Steve and his friend, Sam, as they search for a ghost. And Clint keeps lying to them, for James. Something twists in his stomach, because he doesn't want to do this to Clint, but he isn't ready to face Steve, not yet.

He isn't who Steve seeks.

Today, though, Clint's lips press in a bitter set, and James fills with something ugly for it. It's his fault for putting that look on Clint. He wants to wipe it off, wants to see Clint smile again.

"Do you..." he clears his voice, looks down at his own mug when Clint's eyes find his, "do you wanna tell him?"

Silence stretches.

A gust of wind shuffles through the leaves outside, and James counts seconds, a minute, one and a half.

The scrape of Clint's chair on the floor makes James' breath stop mid-draw, and then Clint approaches. His hand is warm on James' shoulder.

"Hey," Clint whispers, and James dreads what he might say next. Clint waits, but when James doesn't move, his fingers pull at James' chin until he finally looks up. "Of course not," Clint says with a swipe of his hand on the side of James' neck until it grips tightly onto his shoulder. "It's your decision to make."

Clint smiles. It's small, but unmistakable, reaching his eyes in a way that makes their corners wrinkle slightly. It pulls at James' heartbeat until it fills his chest with a flurry of sensation.

_I love you._

It almost blurts out of him and he swallows to keep the words at bay.

"Look," Clint says, leaning closer, "take you time. You don't have to be ready now, ok? I'm not kicking you out."

He winks, and James' lips curl in a smile on their own accord. He scowls against it, and Clint huffs.

"Don't be like that, kitty," he says, pinching James' cheek. His fingers slip through James' beard and it almost feels like a loss. "I know you like it here."

He does, very much so. Clint is here, there's silence and peace, and it feels safe. Free.

"You do, don't you?" Clint's hand travels to wrap itself around the back of James' neck, and he can see Clint's eyebrows slowly starting to form a frown.

"Yes, of course," he hurries to say, wishes to keep...

Oh.

Clint smiles so widely, it lights up his entire face.

He looks like he's been given a most wonderful gift.

Oh. Oh. If possible, James' heartbeat increases even more. Could it be that Clint wants James back?

"Good," Clint says with a squeeze on James' neck before leaning back up and moving away.

James watches him place his mug in the sink, trying to determine if what he's felt was real. He runs through it one more time, and again. It was real, he didn't imagine the caress Clint's given to the back of his head, fingers nimble through James' hair.

This is... this is _hope_.

And it makes his throat constrict.

"Wanna go for a run?" Clint asks, turning back, and James finds himself nodding. "Great, gonna grab my shoes," he throws a thumb over his shoulder, and he's off.

James blinks against the morning sunlight, his entire focus scattered through everything he longs for. He's out of his chair quietly, moves toward the door, the need to be near Clint amplified. The sound he hears is fragile, small and barely there, but it stops him right before he steps through the frame. Clint sighs again, on the other side of the wall.

"Wish I could keep you here forever, kitty."

The words are so soft, he wouldn't have heard them had he still been at the table.

Clint, Clint... something scrambles inside of James to tell him, go there, now, touch, _tell him_. But James is numb, his lips tingling and his chest on fire.

What if he's wrong? Oh, but what if he isn't?

A stray lock of hair shifts to fall onto his forehead, just as Clint moves away and up the stairs. James pushes it back, his wrist brushing the edges of the beard on his cheek.

No.

He fists his hand in his hair, moves the metal fingers to scrape over his face.

No. He can't, not like this.

This isn't him, this is the ghost of the killer he was before Clint's shown him how to exist again.

"Clint!" he calls as he runs up the stairs two at a time.

A muffled answer comes from Clint's bedroom and James stops right inside the room, stifles a laugh at Clint sprawled on the floor, a shoe in one hand, upper body beneath his bed. He comes out grinning a second later, holding up his pair of running shoes victoriously.

James' insides flip pleasantly.

"What's up?" Clint asks as he struggles to put the shoes on without untying them.

James moves closer, pushes him to sit on the bed, before kneeling down to untangle the laces.

"I need a shave," he says.

"Sure," Clint answers without pause.

James busies himself with sliding the shoes on Clint's feet, because he doesn't know what else to say right now. This feels like a big step.

When he finally looks up, Clint's eying him with curiosity.

"What," James grits, standing up.

"Nothing," Clint says, raises both palms. "Just didn't know you were a mother hen."

James growls at him before walking away. Clint laughs, and James sneaks a peek back at him as he passes into the hallway. There's a fondness on his face, an expression so familiar that he's always expecting to see it on Clint. He's never noticed, though, never recognized what it means.

Now, he does, and it warms him from the inside.

_Hope_.

~


	8. Hope (cont'd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James wants to do something nice for Clint after Clint gives him that haircut.

A small laugh escapes James' lips as he finally brings the contents of the package to light. Internet stores and second day deliveries are surely useful.

Well, not that James has ordered anything that is, in itself, useful, but people online keep saying that that's what the internet is for. So he let himself do it, and it brings a sort of personal mirth to himself, something he's never thought he could experience again.

For the past few days, ever since Clint gave him the haircut and the shave, his time has been filled with the recollection of his path, from the moment he jumped after a wounded Steve and until this sunny afternoon.

He remembers standing outside that Russian cabin, watching Clint. He recalls the hopelessness, even though at the time he hadn't recognized it as such.

He remembers the way Clint's presence called to him. How he wanted, with every fiber of his shattered being, to be James Barnes.

To be the object of Clint's protection.

Now, after Clint's unknowingly made his emotions clear, James is full to the brim with this hope he's been yearning for.

And it takes him back to that fraction of a second, to the first conscious decision he ever made, under the sunlight of a frosty morning in the middle of nowhere. He wrapped himself, then, around the idea of James Barnes, held on tightly, too much sometimes, wishing to be someone worth protecting.

Worth caring for.

Like Steve cares for his Bucky.

If Bucky Barnes were here, he'd be clutching at his own ribs, laughing at the prank he's about to pull. James just smiles, though, imagining the would be glee, as he runs the tips of his flesh fingers over the synthetic fur.

Clint will love this. After he returns from his current mission, James will wait until he's awake, until he's in the kitchen with a mug full of coffee.

His lips push up and more sound bubbles out of his throat.

The cat ears on the headband in his hands are dark gray, with lighter triangle patches, tiny on the inside. They are perfect and James fits it over his head, his upper body trembling with silent laughter. He's inside the bathroom in a heartbeat, looking in the mirror... and his entire being stutters.

Bucky's smiling back at him.

And then he's watching James, awed.

That they're here. That they're both alive, and human, and warm.

~

"Aw, kitty," Clint mutters, eying the coffee stain cooling on his front.

It's a good thing the drink wasn't hot and that James has been waiting with it prepared since he's heard Clint roll out of bed. James' chuckles are loud, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, and Clint shifts his gaze on him.

It's so soft that it turns his insides into a squirming paste of butterflies.

Then, Clint's walking to where James is sprawled on a chair, wraps his arms around James' shoulders, his hands onto the back of his head.

He's warm and James is...

... is face-pressed onto the wetness on Clint's chest. James pulls away, but Clint's hold tightens.

"Ughew." James shuffles, but that only makes his nose be filled with more coffee smell.

Around him, Clint's body shakes, and it only takes James a beat to figure out he's laughing. The sneaky bastard.

"Clint, ew," he says, hands gripping at Clint's sides.

But they both laugh harder, and eventually Clint lets him up for air with a ruffle to his short hair, careful not to dislodge the headband with the ears.

James' heart pounds in his chest as he watches Clint with his face brighter than anything he's seen on him before.

~

"Thanks," Clint says, sitting at the kitchen table, later, while James washes the dishes after breakfast.

He's twirling the headband between his fingers, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips. He looks tired. Clint's been away for only thirty hours this time, but he hasn't gotten any sleep except for a couple of hours this morning. James has been waiting, he knows.

"What for?"

Clint lifts the fake cat ears in front of him instead of answering and James turns to him after drying his hands. He nods as he sits next to Clint.

He wants to say thanks, too. For accepting him. Guiding him.

But a single word feels unworthy after what Clint has done for him.

He's been thinking about this. The torture Clint's inflicted in that cabin, it hasn't been for James. He's killed for James, but has caused pain for what he used to be between Bucky and James. That hollow thing without a soul that didn't deserve...

He's not sure he deserves any of this either, but the hope that's taken root within himself swells, makes him believe there's a chance of redemption in his future.

"Meow," he says instead.

Clint laughs again, and it's better than anything, reinforcing his faith.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we're on a roll today! :3


	9. Tainted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little timestamp while I work on the [Nameless](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/134681594247/the-nameless-one) fic.  
> Thank you for reading! o/

It doesn't always bother him, but ever since he's gotten his hair cut and beard shaved, it's been sticking out, a reminder of not being his own, a brand. And on the days Clint looks at him with that fondness he keeps seeing, James almost feels the red star burning through the metal.

It's time it goes.

He cups his right hand over one of the plates holding the star, turns his thoughts toward it, wills it loose. A click, and the plate drops in his palm. This one is easy to remove, but the larger one above it, that bears most of the mark, is connected to a sensitive circuit. It's going to be tricky taking it off. For now, though, he inspects the piece of metal in his hand, trails the edges of the paint. It's etched in, grooves lining the boundary of the shape. So even if he removes the paint, it will still be there, mocking him.

James growls at the plate, squeezing it so tightly in his palm that the ridges almost break his skin.

"Hey," Clint's voice pulls James out of his thoughts before Clint sits on the sofa next to him. He smells like soap and water and the sunlight he's been running under earlier. "What's up?"

"I want it off," he says and hands over the plate.

Clint inspects it with a hum. "Off completely? Or just the color?"

"Off."

He's still amazed how Clint is never afraid of him, or of the weapon that his arm is, especially in those painful moments when he's terrified of himself. It's liberating.

"We're gonna need a sander," Clint says and stands up.

James follows him into the basement, where the majority of Clint's tools lie haphazardly on the shelves there. Clint seems to know what he's talking about, as he rummages in a box, so perhaps there is still hope that the star will be completely gone.

"Ok," Clint says as he returns with a tool in his hand to where James is waiting. "I don't know if this will work, depends on the alloy in this," he wiggles the plate, "but if it doesn't, we're just gonna find some other sandpaper."

~

It doesn't work. The tool even gives up on life completely, its motor winding down with a small whir and a foul burning smell.

Clint buys another one. This time, they've done their research and the paint flecks off, but not the grooves. James is going to have to deal with it, but Clint just tuts at the plate with a head shake. If he's not giving up, then James won't either.

~

It's an accident that James finds a sort of sandpaper online that can deal with industrial grade... whatever, it's not important, because it works. The grooves are fucking gone, and Clint holds the plate toward the light with a big grin on his face.

James smiles. Perfect.

The rest of the star sits on three more pieces, two smaller, removable ones, and they get the same treatment as the first. The last one, though, with the most red, but less grooves, James can't disconnect completely. He'd lose two sensor arrays, perhaps even one of the hydraulics from the shoulder, and it just won't do.

Thing is, he's going to feel it. Every single brush of the sander, he's going to feel them light up all the nerve endings that are connected to the wires carrying signals from the sensors.

But he wants it off.

They strap the arm down before trying, and James bites on a folded piece of cloth while Clint looks at him grim faced.

"Ready?" he whispers and James nods.

It reminds him of the chair and the fear.

That pain.

But it's only a passing thought, because this one is entirely different. This one he's chosen freely, to rid himself of the lingering trails of inhumanity.

It washes over him, as he watches Clint carefully scrub off the remnants of the star, and this pain is cleansing.

He's covered in a sheen of clammy sweat by the time they're done, but James has never felt less tainted.

Less broken.

~


	10. Ten Things That Make James Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. coffee
> 
> Shared quietly in the morning, with sun shining in through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a post on tumblr running around, one of those tag games, about ten things that make people happy. You can thank fuckyeahdeafandasexual for poking at me to do the thing. This thing. Enjoy.

James has a notebook. Like Steve has that notebook of things to try, and Clint's told him all about that, James has a notebook of things he's relearned that he enjoys. It's always changing, cos he's always discovering new things. And at the end of the notebook, he has tiny lists in order of enjoyment, and he rewrites those as time goes by. But right in the center of the notebook, ready to be plucked out and folded and kept safe, should they need to leave the house under attack, right in the middle there is a list of people who are making James happy. And it has Clint and Steve on the first line, the only line. He hasn't spoken to Steve yet, but Clint's always giving him updates on how Steve's not giving up on James. Perhaps he'll be ready soon, he'd like to give Steve that.

It's something else that James goes for now, though. The cover of the notebook has a small pocket, carefully hidden from cursory inspections, and that's where he keeps it. His first list. He's written it right after he'd gotten the pendant from Clint, an idea he'd found online as he had scoured the internet for information on the new feelings he had discovered.

He pulls the paper out carefully. It's a little battered, a little wrinkled, but he is gentle with it nonetheless. He's written it in English, but he's used Cyrillic letters. Writing it had felt like spilling secrets.

_'Ten things that make me happy'_ he reads at the top of the list.

_1\. french toast_

Because Clint smiles so brightly when he eats that thing, it's making everything seem more focused, filled with color.

_2\. the way the arm responds_

He actually feels incredibly lucky that the arm is not damaged beyond what he can repair.

_3\. reading_

Especially when Clint picks up a book in the middle of night and reads from it, voice hushed.

_4\. learning new things_

Cooking, in particular.

_5\. coffee_

Shared quietly in the morning, with sun shining in through the windows.

_6\. remembering_

_7\. the farmhouse_

It's home. It's safe.

_8\. being free_

_9\. the ~~cat-tags~~ pendant_

James rolls his eyes at himself.

_10\. Clint._

The last one there, it's wobbly, the lines shaky and uneven. James had written that with his heart pounding in his chest. It's more of a wishful thinking right now, even though there's hope, even though he sees the way Clint looks at him sometimes.

With the same longing James feels for him.

With a smile, he folds the paper back up, hides it back in its place.

He needs a little bit of courage. 

Clint walks around doing things only Clint knows why he's doing. James watches him for a while, wonders what it would be like to have Clint's hands on him instead of on the tools he's using in the dining room.

Soon, the sun lowers and James picks at the keys of the laptop, unable to stop thinking about Clint. The shower turns on upstairs, and James imagines water falling onto Clint's shoulders... He shakes himself out of it. He continues the bored clicking until a video pops up. How did he end up on the pornography website again? But then... what the hell is that, James tilts his head to get a better view, what are they doing... oh!

"I sure don't remember this," he comments at the screen.

A huff of laughter comes from behind. James stills, a thought already forming in his head. Oh, this is a wonderful idea, James reckons as he runs after Clint, heart rabbiting in his chest.

~

Yes, the best idea ever. James kisses Clint's forehead gently, watches his sleeping face as slumber settles over him as well. 

The list is complete. 

_Happy._

~


End file.
